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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27869134">A Not So Late Show</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt'>Monsterunderkilt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Manse [37]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Actor RPF, Celebrities - Fandom, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fanfic - Fandom, Real Person Fiction</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Multi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:35:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27869134</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen decides to film in my home office for a change.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Manse [37]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1209447</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Not So Late Show</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My office has been taken over by TV people. As I sit in the chaise in the corner of the bedroom and try to study my sonnets, I hear all the behind-the-scenes fretting and tittering, even through the secret hidden door behind the bookshelf that connects to the next room. I finally give up and stomp over, pull the secret lever on the side of the shelf and slip into the short passageway. In the dark, I knock on the second door.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a sudden hush, and then Stephen’s voice telling everyone to calm down.</p><p> </p><p>“The Manse isn’t haunted, it’s just my wife,” he says as he opens the door for me. He grins as wide as a canyon, and without hesitation, takes me by the arm and leads me into the room. “Come, please join me today, sweetheart,” he says, guiding me to sit on my own favorite leather sofa on the far end of the room, opposite from my desk, where he has set up shop for the day. The smiling camerawoman and the script dude give me a friendly wave before they go over the script for the monologue.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought we’d do a remote taping today just for fun,” Stephen says as he sits down behind the desk. “I was going to bother you soon anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>“You were already bothering me just fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh I’m sure the old Billy Shakes won’t miss you for twenty minutes,” he says in that trademark lightly sardonic manner that makes him so endearing.</p><p> </p><p>I cross my arms over my chest, but I smile all the same. “I have only ten sonnets left, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really?” His eyes are as wide as his toothy smile. “Wow, you’ve nearly done it, muffin, congratulations! Are we going to celebrate this week or what? Should I get more steak tartare?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” I say, settling in as I watch him make sure all the props on the desk are in the right spot. “Sir gets me for the weekend, though, you recall. This was sort of our little project this year, after all.”</p><p> </p><p>Stephen nods, half paying attention at this point, so close to showtime. He smoothes the front of his blue checked shirt and sweeps a hand through his thick wavy hair. “I totally understand, Madam. But we’re all proud of you and we’ll find some way to commemorate it, I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>I blow him a kiss. “Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>He winks at me, then turns to the camera. “<em>Estamos listos</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Si, listos</em>,” says the cameralady, both thumbs up.</p><p> </p><p>I suddenly realize that, clad in yoga pants and a too-tight t-shirt, I am definitely not dressed for any kind of camera time, and I hope they don’t pan over to me at all during this little experiment. Before I know it, the script guy is counting down with his fingers and I freeze.</p><p> </p><p>“Good evening, everybody!” Stephen says, addressing his virtual studio audience somewhere in the ether. “I’m coming at you tonight not-so-live from my wife’s office because we’re all following the CDC’s recommendations not to leave home due to the devastating third wave of COVID-19 sweeping our nation. I’m also not wearing any pants. And that’s not just a Zoom trope; the news just makes me keep shitting my pants. Can I say that? They’re gonna bleep that, aren’t they? You know, as long as the FCC is censoring shit, they really should just play one long bleep over anything the soon-to-be-former president and soon-to-be-current long-term courtroom resident says. At this point, any lengthy dialtone would be preferable to the litany of chalkboard scratching that usually emanates from his cheesecake-hole.”</p><p> </p><p>I snort and immediately blush, all too aware that it’s going on air.</p><p> </p><p>Stephen glances at me and blows that kiss right back at me. “Thank you, Madam. You know it’s not easy to get a snort out of my wife, so I’ll take that as a supreme compliment.”</p><p> </p><p>I cover my face and try not to laugh quite as hard as I usually do when I watch Stephen’s monologue, but it proves nearly impossible. Luckily this is just what he wanted.</p><p> </p><p>“Speaking of cheesecake, Attorney General Bill Barr, seen here thinking really hard about how he’s going to convince everyone in the room he didn’t just cut the cheese, is abandoning the president over the unsubstantiated election fraud allegations due to... well... the truth, which is that his boss has no method in his madness. Lay not that flattering unction unto your soul, that not your temper tantrum, but widespread voting irregularities speaks!”</p><p> </p><p>I squeal, which gets a sparkling grin from Stephen, and my heart plotzes to hear him chuckle at my chuckle.</p><p> </p><p>“That one was for you, dear,” he comments, jabbing a thumb in my direction. “<em>Hamlet</em> always gets her going. Also, Pedro Almodóvar movies, Tilda Swinton, and any random mention of <em>Dune</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>I squee at this, and he nods with self-satisfaction, getting his anonymous background giggles.</p><p> </p><p>“In other vast desert wasteland news, Arizona was mentioned in the president’s latest 45-minute recording of death throes, and he insists that many mail-in ballots in that state were stolen from mailboxes and quote-unquote ‘hidden under a rock.’ He should know better because that’s the same place he’s hidden his head for the last month. Scratch that, I’m sorry, I’m being told he actually hides it in the same place we here he has his massive dumps.”</p><p> </p><p>This goes on for another ten minutes or so, and I almost feel like I’m just watching TV until he makes a goof that’s too goofy to keep and he has to start over with a bit. My dearest Stephen, working his butt off despite the world falling apart out there, giving us hope and laughter. It’s giving me nachas and I very nearly feel transported back in time to the old <em>Colbert Report</em> days.</p><p> </p><p>“We have a great show for you tonight! I’m pretty sure Jon Stewart will pop up because he’s definitely sneaking around the house here somewhere, but after we pay the bills, I tell what’s been happening... Quarantinewhile. Be right back.”</p><p> </p><p>“And cut.”</p><p> </p><p>“Awesome, good job everyone,” Stephen says, cracking his knuckles and standing up to stretch. “How was that, honey?”</p><p> </p><p>I give him lots of little claps. “You’re a pro, Stephen. I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>He walks over and takes my hands in his, lifting me off the sofa and straight into a hug. “Thank you, sweetie, that was fun. We’ll do it more often.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s really warm, already farschvitzed, reminding me of why he kept his old studio in Hell’s Kitchen at meat-locker temperatures. I hold on to him a minute, just meditating on this moment when his energies are flowing. He used to be much more intense when he worked, but now he’s not putting up his “Colbert” façade, and the modest collection of micromoments we got to see the real Stephen peek through all those years has been drowned with his <em>Late Show</em> flood of realness.</p><p> </p><p>“You OK?”</p><p> </p><p>I pull away and smile up at him. “Yes, of course.”</p><p> </p><p>“Felt like you really needed that hug just now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but I was just thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>Stephen kisses my forehead and smooths my hair from my brow. “Thinking gives me wrinkles. But somehow it has the opposite effect on you.”</p><p> </p><p>I grin and shake my head, reaching up to kiss his lips. I hold his attention a few seconds longer. “There’s this line in <em>Lear</em> I’ve struck upon: ‘But where the greater malady is fix’d, the lesser is scarce felt.’ I just... haven’t felt this light in a long while. A heavy cloud is starting to drift away.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. It sure feels that way, doesn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you for this. Everyday, I thank you for this show.”</p><p> </p><p>“Speaking of which, I better get back to it,” he says, taking my arm to lead me back to the secret door. “Perhaps it would be best if you took Ben to your secret reading spot for the rest of the afternoon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good idea.”</p><p> </p><p>He kisses my temple and waves a goodbye as I slowly close the door behind me. I take a deep breath andstep out to close the bookshelf door. I jump on the bed and grab my phone off the night table, then text Ben to meet me on the castle wall.</p>
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